Hobbits Don't 'Do' Time travel
by Authorship
Summary: The last thing Bilbo remembers is the boat; you know, the one supposed to take him to the Undying Lands. But, being the old hobbit he is, Bilbo takes his usual nap above deck, enjoying the gentle sea breeze. And perhaps, Frodo will tell him more stories when he wakes. But Bilbo most definitely didn't plan to wake up young back in his beloved Bag-end. This has Gandalf all over it.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER- I own nothing.**

The first thing Bilbo noticed was the smell.

It was warm, like a lovely fresh baked roll, crisp and homely and most definitely not the gentle salty waters from the journey to the Undying Lands.

It smelt homey.

Like a smial.

But not just any smial.

Bilbo knew without a doubt, without even having to open his eyes, where he was. Or, most specifically when.

After all, you don't live to the ripe old record-breaking age of 133 without getting used to the aches of an ancient body. And you most definitely notice when they go missing.

He was back.

His eyes pop open at the admission he hadn't really wanted to make. It was too real that way.

The ceiling in his master bedroom is the same as ever.

His eyes, not at all sleepy from his rest, not at all blurred from the discrepancies of age, travel down the walls to the mirror against the wall before his bed.

A terribly familiar hobbit, all brown curls and smooth skin and no more than 50-odd, stares back.

Merciful Yavanna, despite the feeling in his no-longer-ancient bones that already spoke of youth, the proof is undeniable now.

He's young again.

The thought almost makes him want to roll over the side of his bed and puke whatever the hell he last ate up all over the floor of Bag-end.

But no, that most definitely wouldn't do; those floors were mahogany and in no way was he damaging them.

Anyway, he faced dragons and trolls and an angry deranged Thorin Oakensheild as well as so many other fearsome sights.

He could most definitely deal with a little smidgen of…time…travel.

Bilbo fainted.

….

 **A/N- I posted this….fuck...a long,** _ **long**_ **time ago on and I haven't updated it in a long time (by my standards). I haven't rewritten anything but just shifted some stuff around with some spelling and my author notes lmao. Anyway...enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 2

The tougher side of Bilbo (the part that had attacked fearsome foes once upon a time) wanted to staunchly deny that it took almost three hours to halt his breakdown.

Bilbo reasoned that anyone who travelled over half a century back in time deserved at least several hours to stop crying, rampaging and running around trying to ignore the overwhelming evidence that this was reality and not some sadistic dream.

It was the sight of Drogo, young and most definitely alive, smoking his father's pipe as he escorted Primula Brandybuck down the lane that convinced him. The sight of the gleamingly polished mahogany pipe was testimony enough that this was no dream; such a detail would most certainly have been overlooked if this was some elaborate trick.

Bilbo remembered when their bodies were dredged from the river, the pipe still perfectly cared for in his (second) cousin's breast pocket.

Bilbo himself had taken to using it after his adventures with the Company saw the loss of his own pipe.

This was real.

He shakily pressed himself back from the window, sliding down the curved wall of the corridor with the grace of a man mortally wounded. His hands, _so youthful and smooth with none of the hardness of a working life_ , curled into fists; one tugging harshly at the messy curls on his head, the other pressed tightly to his clenched mouth.

His sobs were silent but nevertheless filled with aching emotion.

Grief… shock… sorrow...but, also, a fiery determination; they were alive, all of them. Not just his young cousins but _everyone_. The Company of his dear friends, those two mischievous dwarfish princelings, Thorin…and Gandalf, Frodo and Elrond were all still here (despite one not yet being born, but Bilbo consoled himself that it was only a matter of time before his beloved nephew was with him once more).

But he was here with them all and, more importantly, he remembered everything.

He could save them, stop everything from falling to ruin once more.

He could fix it.

Or, Bilbo compromised with his common sense that reminded him that, despite his extra years, he was still a soft-hearted hobbit with no fighting (or burgling) prowess...he'd give it a good ol' try!

-oOOOo-

Bilbo decided that his first order of business back in the body of his fifty-year-old self was, naturally, lunch.

In the years before he sailed, his body had reacted so violently to the destruction of the ring that he could barely stand to stomach anything and his body started to fail him. It had been a terrible time, feeling like he was losing his own body. His hobbit pride had been dealt an infuriating blow; no more could he stomach the numerous meals a day that the Shire-folk based their lives around, his shrunken stomach fit to burst with three like the other races; it was humiliating to say the least (Bilbo was only glad then that, other than Frodo and his merry trio of comrades, Rivendell was hobbit-free).

It was only right, Bilbo assured his empty smial, that he made up for all those lost meals over the years!

Despite the extensive food already prepared in his cold rooms and larders, Bilbo found himself greatly comforted by cooking. He hadn't baked or done anything of the sort in many a year, due to being a guest of the elves and also his own increasing frailty. In fact, Bilbo was guiltily sure that he hadn't cooked anything since that fateful night he had fled the Shire, leaving the ring in poor Frodo's possession. Over twenty years… at least he had apparently forgotten nothing about it…

After a scrumptious meal of fried fish (he couldn't help but chortle at how he'd absently managed to cook the very meal that Dwalin had filched from when they'd met) washed down with a very expensive white (Bilbo thought his first meal back was a worthy occasion), his Aunt Dorotheas' secret spice roast vegs and a sticky toffee pudding, Bilbo decided that if there was ever a time to rejuvenate his yet-unestablished writing career, now was it.

He had thought hard over the course of his meal, thoughtful comments hanging in the empty smial ( _he had not lived alone or eaten alone in such a very long time that he found himself speaking his mind aloud more and more frequently. Naturally, there was no one to reply.)_ and come to the conclusion that it was only rational he wrote down all he could remember, lest he forget or ( _Yavanna forbid_ , he gulped nervously) something happen to him.

But now, years of gossip as _The_ Baggins and, later, as 'Mad Baggins' had taught Bilbo the value of caution.

People were dreadfully fickle, few as much as Hobbit-folk when faced with anything to do with the external affairs.

If he wrote his memories as a story, then people would think nothing of it. Despite the staunch outlook of Hobbits (excluding a few branches of family) towards adventures and outsiders in general, children were children and a fanciful tale would be exceptionally well received.

New names would be easily imagined, a few details altered ( _not One Ring but, maybe, a circlet...?_ ) and no one would be any the wiser; Gandalf, the crafty mischief-maker he was, might see through but Bilbo wasn't sure he wanted to keep the truth from his dearest friend anyway; it would definitely make life easier if the Grey Wizard knew all.

Late that night, Bilbo sat in his armchair for a good long while, smoking on his old pipe and dressed in his favourite velvet dressing gown. The fire glowed gently, washing the dark room in a soft golden glow and humming with warmth. In his lap sat his small desk calendar that he had picked up when coming through the corridor. His fingers were slightly stained with ink that had long since dried and that he'd been careful not to spill anywhere. Dates had been circled with shaky hands and the day's date had a wobbly 'x' marking it.

Of course, _of course_.

It was so cliché Bilbo wanted to laugh at how ironic it was. His writers mind supplied that if this was a book, he probably would have scoffed and tossed it away at the predictable 'plot-twist'.

Of course, he had only two weeks until that fateful visit from Gandalf.


	3. Chapter 3

As much Bilbo wished he could say otherwise, there was not a great deal he could do in preparation for Gandalf's meddling, nor for the inevitable onslaught of too-familiar Dwarves that would be sure to follow.

Bilbo was _still_ no warrior so he couldn't go in search of some weapon to brush up on.

Nor could he contact anybody in preparation; Gandalf had supposedly searched the Shire high and low for the fourteenth member of Thorin's Company and so Bilbo couldn't risk any noisy Hobbit picking up on any preparations before Bilbo had even been asked. Now, this might've seemed dreadfully paranoid of the poor Baggins but, if nothing else, Bilbo had learnt the hard lesson of caution in his considerable years.

He chuffed heavily before biting thoughtfully on the stem of his favourite pipe, the thumb of his _too smooth_ hand repeatedly skimming over the inky 'X' of the Company's arrival.

He had never felt so alone.

The Smial was empty, too quiet and lacking the comfort it used to afford, back when times were less dire and he wasn't a decrepit El _der of over 113 years shoved_ -

Not to mention the indecision that plighted the _too young, not old enough_ Hobbit.

He still hadn't decided upon what course of action He wanted to take.

At _all._

It was dreadfully vexing business. To tell or not to tell, that was the root of the issue. On all fronts.

Poor Bilbo was so uncomfortable, even in his best Dressing gown and rabbit-lined slippers, that he set aside the taunting calendar and paced before his hearth. The smooth fluidity of his perfect joints did nothing to reduce his aggravation.

Did he question Gandalf, trust in his oldest friend as he itched to do? Or had he been sent back for a reason and, therefore, should his influence be as subtle and unknown of as possible…?

And that was another panic-point, as it were, for poor Bilbo; _how in Yavanna's good green garden was he supposed to behave towards everyone?_

He'd been as pasty and shaky as a sickly lamb when he'd seen his neighbours! How could he cope around his oldest and dearest companions, many of whom he'd bid a tragic farewell?

Well there was nothing else for it, Bilbo concluded later as he settled down into the goose feather downing of his luxurious bed that he'd not felt for decades.

He'd have to be the riddle-y little thief that had outsmarted The Gollum-creature and exchanged prose with a Fire-Drake.

The adventures of Barrel-Rider would have to commence once more.


	4. Chapter 4

When Bilbo Baggins woke up the next morning in the home he really shouldn't have been in, he was modestly proud that this time he didn't feel an intense desire to empty his stomach all over his beautiful floors.

"It's the small victories - particularly for little folk such as myself - that count", he reasoned.

(He wondered, again out loud, whether it might be best if he tried to stop thinking vocally; not only did he look just a tad mental but he didn't want to start waffling on about things a 50 years young Bilbo shouldn't know.)

After all, it wouldn't be good if he started musing about how to deal with the Pale Orc in front of the Company one night, now would it?

 _Ah_ , the Company.

Well, there went Bilbo's good morning.

The Hobbit chuffed a sigh at the reminder of trials ahead before crawling out from under his fluffy duvet, his stout feet sticking ever so slightly to the cool wooden floor, creating a soothing padding sound as he strolled to the kitchen.

The sunlight, even at so early a time as this, was lovely and warm through his perfectly polished windows (Hamfast must've given them a wipe at some point). The kitchen fairly glowed in the golden rays and soon Bilbo had himself settled with a pot of breakfast tea and a hearty spread of pastries.

Despite this, a frown of severe thought was still firmly plastered to his _too smooth, not wrinkled_ forehead.

He'd told himself last night that there wasn't much he could do in preparation for Gandalf and the Dwarves.

But, after a hearty rest, like most issues, Bilbo felt much more optimistic towards his capabilities.

Nay, optimistic wasn't the right word. Maybe, more like…

"Determined." Bilbo asserted out loud before rolling his eyes at his violation of his promise to stop thinking like that.

He may not be a warrior but he'd given a good few smacks of Sting back in the day.

Alas, Sting was not yet his but any short sword would have to suffice for the time being. Bilbo counted himself lucky that he, aside from his uncle the Thain and cousin 'Tin', had the strongest claim to the family heirlooms. Which should, if memory served, include a few scant pieces of armour and some swords (which were thankfully still in good nick).

So, Bilbo started a mental checklist, He'd have to drop by Uncle Is's at some point (hopefully for tea; his aunt's teacakes were renown).

He'd also head down to the market, no time like the present to start stocking up on travelling necessities and long-lasting foods for the second pantry.

"Ai! Much to do," Bilbo exclaimed quietly as he savoured his last sticky bite of honey pastry and final gulp of tea.

And with that, the Master of Bag End prepared for the long day ahead.

-oOOOo-

The sun may well have been lovely that morning at (first) breakfast, but outside it was simply _glorious_.

Bilbo felt the tightness in his chest, an invisible grip that had clenched since he'd first awoken here, ease in the serenity of the neighbourhood. The grass was the most luscious shade of emerald, wafting lazily in the gentle breeze from atop the Smials and beside the pale pebble lanes. Everything here was so bright and wholesome it soothed Bilbo's aches. Aches he'd barely noticed until they were gone.

He'd almost forgotten why Hobbits loved their home until now.

In that moment, he felt just as he had before at the prospect of leaving home. After he'd returned from the Quest to Erebor, his heart had been ignited and he had spent much of his life restless for the world again. But now…now he remembered just why he'd been reluctant the first time around to leave, why he'd been so eager to return home.

His spirit felt soothed to look upon the place of his childhood once more.

And so, as his firm feet trotted down the lovingly maintained footpaths of the Shire, his best velvet jacket jingling with the weight of his money pouch, his golden curls softly ruffled in the wind, Bilbo felt renewed confidence in the journey that lay ahead.

Well, until he saw the figures of Drogo and Primula out for their daily stroll, at which point he ducked his head to hide his ghostly face and scurried onward to his Uncles.

Maybe not _that_ confident.

The walk was a brief one and, despite the glimpse of his dear cousin, Bilbo thought he'd done very well. (In fact, he did tell himself just that; it wasn't until he saw two little fauntlings gape and giggle at him that he realised with a cherry-red blush he'd once more spoken aloud. He really _must_ break that habit…)

Bilbo had made it to the Market place good and early (mainly to avoid any folk who were a bit _too_ close 'to home'). His pocket had been considerably lightened by the cheese rounds alone (he remembered how dear Bombur had 'eaten them by the block', as Bofur had put it).

Alongside the large cart of food he had sent up to Bag End, he also decided to invest in some heavier duty clothing and some leather wear. In his paranoia for the surprised look Master Gramshaw the tanner had given him, he'd explained how he was writing a storybook and so might need basic protective gear as a reference for sketches. Whilst some could wonder at the expense – why not simply ask to borrow such things for a few sketches without buying them – the wealth of Bag End was well known and so such expenditure did not bat an eyelid.

There was a reason that Bilbo had been the best storyteller in all the Shire before he'd left at 111; he was marvellously convincing when he put his mind to it.

After that rather expensive morning, Bilbo only paused in his errands to drop off the purchases he'd kept on his person and then grab (or as close as you can get to 'grabbing' a hearty hobbit meal) lunch before setting off again, this time towards the 'Great Took' Smial on the outskirts of the Shire.

If Bag End was a mansion in the standards of men, then the Family Took (Uncle Is's) Smial was something akin to a Castle. Bag End was the envy of the Shire due to his prime spot ( _lovely_ views) and the high standard of building. 'The Great Took' on the other hand was, whilst not as lavish as Bag End nor in such a good spot, simply massive.

Big Folk thought Smials were akin to Rabbit holes. Bilbo wondered if The Great Took was the cause of such assumptions.

Most Smials were either built into mounds or several to a hill; The Great Took had an entire hill to itself. Bilbo had once, as a young fauntling, tried to count all the rooms; So many Years had passed that he couldn't remember if he had succeeded, but he did remember almost collapsing in the corridor he had been so tired and getting lost several times.

A grand and mighty oak stood atop the hill; it had supposedly been there as long as the Shire had existed and its gnarled roots were what had protected the Great Smial for generations. Most rooms, if Bilbo remembered correctly, actually had the roots visible through the ceilings or running down the walls.

The scene, however, was a peaceful one and Bilbo took a moment to stand quietly at the gate and admire a scene he hadn't gazed upon in what felt like an age.

The _peace_ didn't last long, however, and a bang pierced the lull of the day, followed by raised voices.

 _Ahh...Tooks,_ Bilbo thought fondly.

The gate creaked as it always had done when he passed through it and his Aunt's pansies filled the front lawn as they always did.

Two firm raps with the badger knocker and his Aunt Dorathea's voice paused from her scolding's to call "In a minute!" from somewhere inside. Some things never changed.

A few scant moments later (Bilbo took them to straighten his jacket and tell himself not to lose it) and the periwinkle blue door was opened to reveal Dorathea Took nee Proudfoot, Lady Thain of the Shire. She looked rather harried.

She was, and always had been, a strong and independent Hobbit, standing tall at almost 3'7". Her long curls, almost waist length, were the colour of mulled wine and her eyes like that of her prize-winning caramel. Even as she grew older, she was still quite the beauty and melted many a heart with her soft eyes and wicked laugh.

Her cheeks were flushed a warm pink (no doubt from the tongue-lashing Bilbo had interrupted) but she nonetheless flashed her motherly smile at the sight of him.

"Bilbo, my darling!" her arms flung around his shoulders; Bilbo had always been proud of his tall height, a shocking 4 foot, and was quietly pleased that she had to reach up to do such a thing. "Aunt Dora," he grinned back as she bustled him inside.

"Your Uncle and I were just settling down for tea, dearest, won't you join us?"

Bilbo only had time to flash her a smile and nod his head (Aunt Dora was setting quite the pace, but then again in a Smial this big…) before she bustled into one of the sitting rooms.

This room had been whitewashed and then painted a lovely peach rose. An ancient oak table was the centrepiece, surrounded by matching wooden chairs, their cushions quilted with various fabrics that Bilbo knew his Aunt had done herself. Another table took up the remainder of the space towards the back of the room, its counter covered in various fabrics and ribbons; his Aunt was up to her sewing again. The main table had an enticing spread of cakes and cold meat; Bilbo's eyes automatically sought out those delicious teacakes and he couldn't stop the grin that stretched his lips at the sight of them steaming on his Aunt's best Farthing crockery.

"Aye, Dora, He doesn't miss a trick this one; doesn't even spare a glance for his old Uncle before he starts salivating over those teacakes!" a gruff voice broke Bilbo's attention and he couldn't stop the violent flush that spread over his face, down his neck and made his delicately pointed ears feel like they'd caught fire. He'd been caught drooling like a fauntling! By the Valar, He was well over 100! Then again, he'd not had Aunt Dora's treats in almost a century…

His eyes broke from the food to settle of the chuckling figure of the Thain. Isumbas Took IV was grinning in self-satisfaction at Bilbo's reaction, one hand hurriedly stuffing his poorly-concealed pipe into his pocket as his other tried to discreetly waft the smoke away.

His efforts were in vain for Aunt Dora was on to him like an arrow from a particularly merciless bow as her age-old rant on smoking in the Smial was recited; Bilbo, after seating himself and helping himself to one of those piping hot teacakes, wondered how such a graceful hobbit could snarl so effectively. He was also impressed that he could still remember large sections of this particular lecture off by heart.

Once his Aunt had (once more) gotten it out of her system and his Uncle looked (once more) properly admonished but still relatively unapologetic (only for the time wasted away from food; Bilbo figured he rather enjoyed riling Dora up; she did look beautiful angry), they sat down and had the loveliest tea (even if Bilbo had already started without them; he wasn't ashamed for they always did this so no one batted an eyelid if you occupied yourself whilst they had a 'moment').

When the dishes had been thoroughly cleared, Uncle Is gestured for Bilbo to follow him back outside; no doubt he wanted an actual uninterrupted smoke this time. They settled themselves on the bench in the front garden. Some of the younger Tooks (fauntlings, really) scampered past with a breathless "'Llo Bil'o" tossed over their little shoulders as both hobbits set about lighting their pipes.

Bilbo decided to get the topic going as it were.

"Uncle Is, I've decided to write a storybook."

His Uncle peered at him around his great, long pipe. Bilbo noticed once more how much he took after his Uncle; same hair (riotous curls that "shone like rays of pure sunlight" his mother had once said) albeit Is's was now faded to a pale golden grey, and the same warm chocolate eyes, the older hobbit's surrounded liberally with laughter lines.

He looked rather like Bilbo had in the decade before he'd left for Rivendell.

At that moment, however, his Uncle looked shrewd. Bilbo had never felt younger.

"And what can I do for you, then, if that's the case?"

His Uncle was Thain after all and quick as a wit.

It was strange to think that, if not for his cousin Fortinbras (II), he might've been in line for Thainship. Thank Yavanna for TinTin.

"I want the stories to be rather accurate, Uncle, so I would like to request permission to hold some Heirlooms at Bag End. The stories will be very much a collection of our own history alongside local tales and I may well need some things for sketches and what not." Bilbo thought he was rather convincing if he said so himself.

His Uncle looked appeased and puff congenially on his pipe. Although Is was sharp as a tack, he had no reason to think Bilbo wanted these things for anything other than scholarly purposes. He was the highly respectable Master of Bag End after all.

"Well then," he paused to blow a smoke ring, "I see no issue with that, my boy."

'Boy, indeed…' Bilbo lamented. He was older than the wise Thain beside him.

He shook himself from those melancholy thoughts for now; there would no doubt be plenty of time for that in the months to come.

For now, he fancied himself a catch-up with the hobbit who had taken him under his wing.

-oOOOo-

When Bilbo made it back to Bag End, the sun had finally set into a cool summer's night.

He was absolutely tuckered out and so stuffed he almost feared for the seams of his best waistcoat (Aunt Dora had not let him loose till she'd gotten another two meals into him).

His arms were filled with an assortment of antiques from Uncle Is and were aching like they hadn't in decades (not since he'd travelled over a year with a company of 13 Dwarrow and a wizard whilst beset with orcs and other foul creatures).

Bilbo resolved to work on that in the fortnight he had left as he stretched out his stiff limbs after dumping his hoard on this broad and study desk. It still groaned at the sudden weight.

Not to mention he'd not been physically taxed in _decades_.

Although…he conceded morosely, towards the end, any movement had been physically taxing. Even the luxury of walking.

His arms didn't hurt so much now after all.

Shaking loose his sobering thoughts, he turned instead to the items spread across his desk.

Some scrolls, a few knickknacks (for variety, he didn't particularly want anyone to see him walk all the way back from his Uncles with his arms filled with swords) and a portrait or two.

And what was useable of the armour of Bullroarer Took.

Bilbo was extremely pleased with himself for that particular find.

The heirlooms had all, at least those not gracing the walls of the Smial, been collected in a large side chamber. It had been filled with such things alongside trinkets and older furniture. That's not to say that it was a dump of a room, merely a busy one. The room had been filled with natural light from the windows (it was to an outside-wall) which was conjoined with the great Library. Thankfully, whilst well maintained, the room was not well-visited and so he'd managed to sneakily try on what armour he could find that was still serviceable.

The legendary warrior Took was a very large hobbit though and so, despite Bilbo's own impressive height, he had still not been able to fit most of the equipment. The greaves however and the mail had fit surprisingly well. Also, despite the equipment's rather impressive age, it was still in very good shape. The leather had been tanned a lovely mahogany brown and was very impressively covered in Ancient Hobbitish writings. Although the language was no longer generally spoken, Bilbo in his later years had become something of a linguistic Master, perfecting several dialects of Elvish, mannish and several others – and, of course, Ancient Hobbitish. In brief, the words were the standard for honour, strength, victory and so on but they did indeed look very important. Bilbo thought they'd garner admiration from both Elf and Dwarf alike.

Most importantly, Bilbo had found a very nice little sword, also engraved in Ancient Hobbitish, that, whilst it wasn't Sting, was still a handsome and sharp weapon that would do very nicely.


	5. Chapter 5

The next week passed by in a horribly predictable blur.

Bilbo had known, known in his gut, that time was even shorter than his calendar had shown- but goodness gracious, he was in a tizzy!

The morning after visiting his Uncle Is', Bilbo had tried to swing his new 'borrowed' sword around a few times (some practice couldn't hurt after all) only to once more realise that just because he was playing some sort of 're-life' didn't mean he was any more of a warrior.

(As a matter of fact, practising _had_ hurt; Bilbo, still unused to his strong limbs, had swung the sword so hard he'd toppled over and stubbed his big toe on his mother's glory box, _Ouch!_ )

However, the flaxen-haired time-traveller had resolved himself to a make-shift exercise routine (within the private confines of Bag-End, of course). He ran from the front door in the surprisingly large circuit through the main rooms before finishing in his office, by the front door once more. Bag-end was hailed an impressive smial for a reason, after all; even with his reasonably spritely youth, it took Bilbo just over five minutes to sprint his 'track' and a few laps had him huffing and puffing. However, he knew he'd be grateful later for whatever endurance he could build up. He also hefted his heavy grain jars around in his second storeroom to help his arms and shoulders, and he wore the armour as much as possible to become as accustomed to the weight and restrictions of it before the journey.

The sword still wasn't very successful.

Resigned once more to the life of a weapon-less scholar, Bilbo became consumed in his book. Knowing how short he was on time, and how much he had to remember and write down, Bilbo very neatly scribbled down all he could remember into a little leather-bound journal. However, the unassuming 'manuscript' wasn't exactly 'book-material'; Hamfast had popped his head in once or twice and Bilbo had had to reason to him that he would get the bare bones of the story down before properly writing the story out.

As the day of Gandalf's visit loomed ever closer, Bilbo spent more and more time in his study writing. His sleep suffered and soon he was missing meals like second breakfast, elevensies and supper; he didn't even bother to eat at the table, rather taking his meals to the study and continuing his writing between bites.

It took a visit from Primula and Drogo to snap him out of his stupor.

Bilbo had been writing since sun-up and when the three sharp raps on the door broke his concentration, he realised he was still in his sleep clothes. Eyes blew wide knowing that he had a visitor waiting on his steps, Bilbo sprinted back to his rooms for his best dressing gown.

A glance at the clock showed it to be almost noon.

 _Oh, Dear,_ Bilbo tutted at himself; he was getting away from himself!

Mumbled voices outside the door reminded Bilbo that he was keeping someone waiting most rudely.

"Oh indeed, I am sorry!" Bilbo cried, pulling the door open with a strong tug.

On the steps, framed becomingly with morning sunlight, the happy and fair faces of Frodo's soon-to-be parents (they were still courting) peered at Bilbo with concern.

"Bilbo, good morning! Are you alright, cousin? Not seen you around these few days! Prim' and I thought we'd pop round so see where you'd got to." Drogo, so like his son it hurt, smiled warmly at his cousin whilst Primula winked mischievously at Bilbo's embarrassed blush.

"I-I, er, that is-". Mentally, Bilbo smashed his face into his palm; where on Arda was his composure, ay?

Drogo's laugh, so different from Frodo's (Frodo's, even after all his adventures, had remained clear and crystal as a delighted child's; his father's was a deep hearty laugh straight from the belly) was just the kick Bilbo needed and he forced himself to join in.

"Of course, I apologise my dear friends; my head was merely stuck in my writing still and you surprised me. Please do come in." At the mention of his writing, Primula frowned whilst Drogo eagerly stepped over the door-jam and started asking if Bilbo had any gooseberry tart.

Walking to the kitchen, Bilbo couldn't keep his blush down as he realised how ill-prepared he was for company; books and maps were strewn everywhere and his kitchen had dirty dishes needed washing- the shame! What hobbit wasn't prepared for company at any given time?

Thankfully, his two companions were tactful enough to not comment although Primula looked at Bilbo with even greater concern and Drogo's friendly arm flung over his shoulders tightened briefly in comfort.

Primula, dainty even with her strong hobbit feet, stepped between parchment to gently peel back the cover of the journal; her lovely azure blue eyes (the same exact as her son) flared wide with wonder.

"Bilbo…this is wonderful! The whole of Hobbiton knows that you are writing but, my dear friend, this is a real treasure!" Drogo grinned in triumph and bumped shoulders with his cousin. (Some older hobbits had been very sceptical of Bilbo's sudden turn to authordom; Drogo was chuffed that he had been right in claiming that Bilbo's work was sure to be marvellous.)

Bilbo, composure finally under wraps once more, dipped his head in thanks and flashed the lass a grin. "It's only the rough version mind you, but thank you very much." Primula carefully stepped her way back to her two friends and then continued down to the kitchen. As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bilbo swiftly moved to the table and swept away the crumbs before heaving the large metal teapot over the fire. Drogo and Primula, who had visited so many times that they immediately set about to help, collected the tea service and various foods from the first pantry.

As the trio settled down for a light meal, Primula breached the conversation first.

"Bilbo, dear friend, are you sure you're quite alright? You seem terribly out of sorts, pet, and it simply won't do for you to do yourself a harm writing like this! Why- you didn't even go to market Thursday-last! You never miss a Thursday!" Primula's voice, whilst low and gentle as always, held a wealth of compassion which had Drogo nodding earnestly in agreement and Bilbo flushing like a fauntling to the line of his curly hair.

"Prim-Dear's right, cousin. You shouldn't be missing meals nor neglecting other things. The book is sure to be a real gem- but it shouldn't come at the cost of your health, 'Bo." Drogo, whilst not as outspoken as his beloved, spoke with quiet surety which seemed beyond his years.

Bilbo, even discounting his 'extra' years, felt very very young.

"I am very grateful for your concern and companionship, my dearest friends…" the master of Bag-end trailed off, wondering how to get out of this situation as smoothly as possible. "And I promise to try harder. Forgive me."

Bilbo forced a sheepish grin onto his face, which Drogo beamingly returned (Prim was a bit more suspicious of his easy admittance), and on some level, Bilbo knew they both spoke the truth. He could not afford to arouse any more attention than he obviously unwittingly had and it would do him no good to make himself sick just as the Company arrived. Some part of Bilbo, however, felt every single tick of the kitchen clock reverberate in his mind and knew intimately how little time he had left.

"Brilliant!" Prim beamed; Bilbo felt his gut sink in anticipation.

"You'll have no excuse to miss the Summer Solstice party tomorrow then!"

-oOOOo-

When a triumphant Primula and deeply amused Drogo finally stepped back out into the afternoon light, Bilbo was in the mood to swing that sword around again.

Even as a young and very proper Hobbit, Bilbo had never enjoyed Solstice parties; it was, after all, terribly fabulous luck to extend/accept a courtship on such a day.

As Master of Bag-end and head of the Baggins line, it was something of a waking nightmare for poor Bilbo.

 _Well, except for TinTin_ , Bilbo consoled himself. Only the Thain's Heir had it worse.

At least he wouldn't be _the_ most miserable.

Second was better than first place in this instance.

All Hobbits _adored_ an excellent party, but hobbit lasses were surprisingly vicious in pursuit of a lad and, at such events, Bilbo and TinTin found themselves akin to the last slice of treacle tart. That is- prey.

And Drogo and Primula had proven to be heartless in their wrangling; then again maybe they had done him a small service.

Bilbo was completely certain that if he had left TinTin alone to face all the eligible hobbit girls, he'd be a dead hobbit walking.

But he didn't have time for this!

A party was a time-consuming thing and that's not just considering the event itself but also helping set everything up, as everyone was expected to do, and the morning after!

 _Dear, dear me!_

Indeed, Bilbo was in _quite_ a tizzy!

The mere thought of time wasted had the lovely sword unsheathed and firmly grasped in both of Bilbo's stout little hands.

He was surprisingly proud of the callouses that had begun to form on them; a testament of his hard work.

One, two! One, two!

Bilbo pretended he knew what he was doing. It was similar, he vaguely remembered, to how Kili and Fili had looked sparring…he thought.

(it wasn't.)

Step forward, slash right! Swing, swing! Dodge!

(Bilbo felt rather ridiculous.)

Parry! Attack! Defend!

(He looked it too.)

"Oh, indeed!" Bilbo finally relented, two minutes in (he was sure it was twenty). "How can I learn to fight if I know nothing about it?!"

Sting had been different, he remembered; that had been an instinct for survival and jolly good luck.

But, now? Learning with purpose and intent? Completely different.

He remembered his mother- _long, golden curls brush his face, soft soft skin and raspberries blown into his tummy, mama's laugh and shining brown eyes which were soft as freshly tilted earth-_ and the two small daggers she had kept safely tucked into the folds of her travelling skirts- " _just in case, 'Bo, my darling. After all, poppet; a hobbit is always prepared!"_

Maybe a dagger; to start off small?

Unfortunately, his mother's knives had been lost in _that_ terrible winter. After a rummage around, his two best filleting knives appeared to be the best choice.

"Well, if I can throw a knife; that's better than nothing."

Knives, Bilbo somehow discovered, were not so different from throwing conkers.

Bilbo as a child had been an excellent shot; he'd never thought it would translate to weaponry though!

Over the following hours, until it became too dark to safely handle pointy things, Bilbo flung his knives into the woodwork of his wood-chopping log. It may have been outside, but the noise was almost the same as that of his small axe and so no one would bother looking.

The first few hours were spent trying to actually get the blade into the wood, or really, anything but the handle!

Knock! Knock! Knock! The handles of his strongest kitchen knives smacked uselessly into the side of the log.

It was three hours later, both shoulders on fire (Bilbo had never been more thankful for his ambidexterity), that the blade hit the stump.

It took 45 minutes more until he could actually get it to stick.

His shoulders and arms feeling like Aunt Dora's cranberry jelly (wobbly to the extreme but somehow still in once piece), Bilbo made his way back inside to fix supper.

He felt just a little bit more in control. A smile of genuine achievement pulled at Bilbo's face. In the dim candle light, face framed by his halo of sunny curls and a small grin on rosy lips, an observer would understand how lasses would have pursued the young Baggins, even without all his wealth and status.

Soft-as-fudge eyes fell on the used tea tray abandoned on the kitchen table, left over from his cousin's visit.

Like a candle being blown out, the moment was broken when Bilbo remembered what was in store for himself and TinTin the following night.

 _"Dash it all, Primula!"_


	6. Chapter 6

It was 6 o' clock in the morning and Bilbo felt like a streak after an appointment with a meat hammer.

Despite his tiresome training long into the night, poor Bilbo saw no reprieve; the Master of Bag-End had forced himself up and out of bed at a miserable 5 am, his shoulders as stiff as rusted barrows and his arms as heavy as lead weights.

"Oh, indeed I am useless this day…" the flaxen-haired hobbit moaned to himself in discomfort, right hand tenderly rubbing his opposite shoulder.

Maybe he'd started off a bit too strong last night.

Unfortunately, Bilbo was right.

It really really _really_ wasn't his day.

At 6, when Bilbo had just managed to pull himself out of the bath and into his clothes, there came a sharp knocking on the door. And Bilbo, poor sleepy and disorientated Bilbo, answered without first considering who would be knocking on his door so insistently at such an early hour.

In all honesty- he had clean forgotten what torture was in store for him.

The sight of a too-bubbly Primula Brandybuck quickly remedied that oversight.

Bilbo half-hearted wondered if he'd survive slamming the door and barricading himself into the smial.

 _No,_ Bilbo regretfully concluded, _Prim would definitely break in and hurt me_.

As with all hobbit lasses, Prim was not afraid of expressing herself, even if in this instance it meant man-handling the second most eligible bachelor in the Shire out of his own home.

"Morning!" she sang, almost disgustingly cheerful. Unfortunately, the sunny expression on her face was too cute and Bilbo found himself quite unable to scowl at her as he so wished- Drat! He settled instead for an unhappy frown (he was pouting) as he stepping back to allow his younger friend inside. The Baggins had scarcely blinked before the Lass had let herself into the kitchen and popped the teapot over the fire (which was somehow already lit- how does she _do_ that?) before starting to shoo him back towards his room for his waistcoat and to brush his tousled curls.

"Bilbo! Bilbo!" she flustered around the smial as if it was her own, "It's scarcely morning and there's already so much to do! We must leave immediately, I tell you! I've already been round Drogo's and he's not even up yet! Oooh that hobbit, I tell ya-," She rambled, already looking rather stressed. Her voice trailed off as she left Bilbo to get himself sorted; distantly, he could still hear her talking as she set about making tea for the two of them.

Why they were having tea when they needed to leave 'immediately' was beyond him.

Still…the sight of her panicked, red face as she ran around like a headless chicken forced a few chuckled from him as he pulled the wooden brush through his thick curls. Walking to his wardrobe, Bilbo rifled through the selection of waisted coats, still thinking about the tizzy Prim worked herself into every single year.

Bilbo couldn't help but wonder why; Prim wasn't even really involved in the organisation of this party! They were just expected to help with the lights and decorations in the afternoon.

Then again, Prim always got a little _too_ into any sort of occasion…

She was talking again, he could hear it, and Bilbo laughed.

 _Hmm...emerald green or pale blue?_

He fingered the golden buttons adorning the blue lapels of the latter, eyes considering the tasteful embroidery (curling golden fern-leaves) along the former's velvet edge.

"-and Winnie was _so_ insistent that the cream be freshly whipped this morning, else it loses its volume overnight! But to ask Anthea to do yet _another_ thing, on top of all those cream-buns, is just rude! Why can't _she_ -,"

The green waistcoat slipped off its hanger and Bilbo swung the rich material around his shoulders (" _-Owwww_ , that's sore!" he hissed halfway through the movement) before shrugging his arms through the holes.

"-well, I said no, of course! Agatha should know by now that I won't be dancing with just any lad that asks!-"

The buttons- satin and green as sweet grass- were fastened over his stomach, which was smooth and young, Bilbo admired with satisfaction; whilst his middle may not have been the hard and flat muscular torso desired by other races, it was firm yet rotund, like a proper hobbit at his prime!

Everything in order, Bilbo moved back into the hallway and through to the kitchen where, he noted with cleverly concealed laughter, Prim had somehow managed to turn a quick cup of tea into a breakfast spread that was extensive- even for two hobbits!

The hobbit herself was sat across from Bilbo's usual chair, hands fisted, long curls frizzy, and cheeks scrubbed red raw in distress. As Bilbo plopped himself down in front of the harried maiden, (one hand immediately moving to fill his plate whilst the other patted her hand in a soothing gesture) the older hobbit wondered how _he_ was suddenly the one comforting Prim; considering what she had dragged him into last night!

Unfortunately for poor Bilbo, Prim had still been talking this entire time and, upon realising that nothing she had said had been heard at all, smacked her friend around the head with her summer fan.

Bilbo had tragically dropped his scone in shock; it landed clotted cream-side down and Prim wondered if he would cry.

(He almost did)

Straight down to business once more, however, Primula leaned across the breakfast spread and spoke with a serious glint in her eye and an even stronger tone in her voice; "Now, Bilbo, you and I must go down to market and gather all the ribbons we can for the party tree; there will be a May-pole again this time but it's been decided that the tree will be used for it this year- the ribbons we have already won't be long enough! Then, you and Drogo will need to help bringing up the tables and chairs with the lads- and then TinTin will probably want your help with the barrels-"

Bilbo wondered if it was too late to go back to bed and pretend to be contagiously ill.

Maybe, if he 'infected' TinTin, he wouldn't get in trouble with his cousin as they'd both miss out on the party!...

The glint in Prim's eyes, scarily reminiscent of a Warg about to pounce, said otherwise.

-oOOOo-

It was four o' clock in the afternoon and Bilbo felt like he'd arms had been ripped off and then sewn back on.

Another barrel was passed to the Master of Bag-End.

Sewn-on with _rusty needles._

He heaved the ale across to Drogo, who looked ready to drop.

With _Orc_ teeth and rough twine.

A few hobbits lasses passed by, arms laden with tablecloths, and the middle one (dusty auburn curls and grey eyes, dimples and freckled arms) winked flirtatiously at the time-traveller.

(He almost dropped the next barrel in discomfort)

(Drogo looked like he wanted to laugh)

(The lasses giggled loudly and seemed to take this as a sign of encouragement- Agatha Proudfoot, the one who'd winked, grinned and blew Bilbo a kiss before all three walked off.)

(Bilbo _did_ drop the barrel, his face appalled, and Drogo _did_ indeed laugh uproariously)

Thankfully, at that point, TinTin swooped in to send all of them off to get ready. The young Thain-Heir was tall (not as tall as Bilbo, though very few were), with floppy black curls and his mother's caramel eyes. His face was long, with a cheeky grin and sun-kissed skin; there was a reason he was the most eligible bachelor in the shire (not just because of his title).

After thanking the hobbits who had gathered around to help unload the barrels, TinTin wrapped an arm around Bilbo's shoulders; "'Bo, Mother wants you 'round ours before the party- I think she made you another garland."

"Oh, how kind of her!" Bilbo exclaimed, "I'll be right over TinTin as soon as I freshen up." The Baggins tried to step away from his cousin, with an awful thought that perhaps he'd caught wind of Bilbo's plan to ditch him the previous evening.

Judging by the nearby snickering forms of Drogo and Prim, heads bent together as their shoulders shook, Bilbo thought that the sinking feeling in his gut was most probably spot-on.

 _Gulp_.

TinTin's arm was suddenly like a band of iron and his cousin was grinning a bit _too_ widely.

"Oh, no Bilbo, that's no worry at all- I may as well go with you and then we can head back home together." TinTin, despite being shorter than his golden-haired cousin, started to lead Bilbo off towards Bag-End with no falter in his step and Bilbo was forced to follow.

Bilbo chuckled nervously before clearing his throat; "Y-you don't have to do that, TinTin! In fact, if I go get ready now, you'll have plenty of time to go home and do the same! Then, by the time I make it to yours, we'll both be on time, ay?" It was a good, logical plan, Bilbo reasoned.

TinTin evidently disagreed. The grin vanished from his face and his arm slipped from Bilbo's shoulders up to his neck; Bilbo found himself quite suddenly in a headlock, with his skull being rubbed a bit _too_ hard by TinTin's fist; "Ohhh, no you don't, scoundrel! I know what you were planning! Leave little old me to fend for myself tonight whilst you lock yourself up in Bag-End with a glass of port-,"

– Bilbo wondered if his cousin would believe him if he said he'd actually planned to practice knife-throwing for an adventure in the near future –

"-and I doubt you even feel guilty, Ass! We're practically the same age, 'Bo and I've definitely been feeling some eyes burning holes in my head today - what will it be like tonight?!"

After all, it was _awful_ good luck to get engaged on the Solstice. Traditionally, lasses were the ones to make the first move - to express interest and all that - but...well…

Bilbo and TinTin _were_ disgustingly eligible and there _had_ been seven weddings in the past 6 months _alone_ and-

Bilbo, who had been futilely shoving his cousin's torso away this entire time, was finally released and looking distinctly worse for wear. TinTin guffawed a loud laugh that Bilbo eventually joined in with; "Ah- ha ha, maybe, ha, it's for the best you get tidied up beforehand now, ay?"

"Sorry, TinTin, I didn't mean to abandon you," Bilbo shook his head ruefully, he really should have known better than to try and slip past his cousin- TinTin was the future Thain after all. He'd be a brilliant one too as well, Bilbo had no doubt. In fact, if Bilbo remembered what Frodo had told him, TinTin had been rather brilliant as Thain; it was a shame the time-traveller couldn't for the life of him remember who'd eventually caught his cousin's eye…

"Ahhh, just don't do it again, Ass." TinTin rolled his eyes. Sometimes, it was a wonder that the Took was actually 7 years older than the Baggins. Then again, with Bilbo's _extra years…_

"…I would've invited you to hide and drink port anyway, if that makes it any better…"

The two couldn't help but laugh as they walked together down the lane.

(TinTin felt it was well with his rights to not mention how ridiculous Bilbo's hair stood up from his head.)

(or how he'd stuck a scrap of parchment with the scrawling words "Come and get me, Ladies" on his back!)

-oOOOo-

It was nine o' clock and Bilbo felt like his arms were more likely permanently damaged than just sore.

He'd just finished dancing with Aunt Dora and then with Prim but little Marigold would actually be the death of him. He'd only been dancing with her for five minutes and this was the fourth time she'd demanded he twirl her!

Granted she was only 6, a little doe of a fauntling that barely reached his waist- but he was tuckered out and a bit on the tipsy-side.

"Bo! Bo!" she squealed again, little arms raised aloft with chubby hands making grabby motions, her feet perched on top of his so they could 'dance'.

It was a real shame she'd inherited Aunt Dora's (her mother's) colouring and angel eyes; even though his shoulders felt like they'd been chewed by Wargs and he'd definitely had too much alcohol to dance with a 6-year-old, she was just too adorable to say 'no' to.

Dash it all! Bilbo mentally grumbled, as his arms once more swung his littlest cousin up into his arms for a twirl.

His face was beaming though as she pressed a messy kiss to his cheek, mumbling that she loved him before snuggling down into his shoulder with a content sigh.

-oOOOo-

It was eleven o' clock at night and Bilbo wondered if the hobbit lass who'd just tried to slip her hand up his shirt was drunk or if she was really just that bold.

Judging by TinTin's harassed expression, the girls really were just that bold. Although, at this point, everyone here was on some level of drunkenness by now.

Her hand, to Bilbo's aggravation, was not to be discouraged through.

When she pinched poor Bilbo's bottom he'd almost leapt a foot into the air, almost fallen face first into Agatha Proudfoot's bosom and almost head-butted TinTin in the stomach.

The group (pack) of girls (Wargs) that were standing (swarming) around TinTin and himself, and a few of the other lads, dispersed slightly in the confusion; Bilbo took the opportunity to duck underneath the nearest tablecloth, pulling the older Took with him (he'd learned his lesson earlier).

"Blimey!" Fortinbras gasped with hushed laughter as they simultaneously started to crawl underneath the long line of table, "I could scarce breathe! Olivia Maggot almost kissed me thrice! Now, there's being straightforward and confident, and then there's _that_!"

"I know!" Bilbo wholeheartedly agreed, nodding furiously, "What's gotten into them? Surely, they know that neither of us will go for anyone behaving like that?"

TinTin cackled "Oooh, I can just see it now!" he joked before raising his voice to imitate a little girl's; "Daddy! Daddy! How did you meet Mama? Well," his voice dropped to a deep rumble- a bit like Hamfast's father's! "She pinched my bum at a dance- and I knew I'd love her forever!"

Both hobbits laughed uproariously, faces red with all the ale they'd consumed so far, before what TinTin had actually described sank in.

"Haha- Wai-WAIT!" Bilbo yelped, both of them oblivious to the girls who'd heard their drunken, too-loud conversation and were now gathered around the table the two had collapsed under. "You-You saw what she-what happened when-," Bilbo splutter and TinTin rolled around clutching his stomach as he gasped with laughter.

"Agatha grabbed your ass!"

Bilbo's jaw dropped, face appalled but the moment was only made worse by the loud gasps that echoed all around them.

The two hobbits only then realised that they were not alone.

"Agatha!" was heard from all around before one girl screeched "How dare you touch my Bilbo that way!" and the sounds of a smack were heard all around.

From there, it descended into chaos.

" _Your_ Bilbo? Why-"

"Don't you dare smack my sister-!"

"Girls, what's wrong with you both! Why, TinTin is so much-"

"Agatha, I saw him firs-"

"well, you're all just so stupid for preferring Bilbo over Tin-"

From underneath the edge of the tablecloth, Bilbo and TinTin could only watch in drunken horror as pairs of hobbit feet scrambled around them. That's when the pushing started and soon a bit of a scuffle broke out.

It was when their table was flipped over that TinTin and Bilbo were able to see how half the party had actually paused to watch the commotion.

Food was being knocked from the tables and a group of around seven or eight girls were trying to pull each other's hair out by the looks of it. A goblet of red wine almost bashed in TinTin's temple and a piece of cheesecake was wasted on Bilbo's trousers.

Bilbo could see Prim and Drogo dancing within his range of sight, the two of them chuckling like mad.

Indeed, this was awful.

The two hobbits (now half-sober from the sheer trauma) shared a look of abject terror and nodded in wordless agreement; running away to Bag-End for some warm port sounded lovely right about now!


	7. Chapter 7

Bilbo awoke the next morning to a pounding headache and the charming sounds of TinTin being sick to his stomach.

 _Lovely_.

When Bilbo finally cracked open his swollen and undoubtedly blood-shot eyes, he knew that the previous night must never be mentioned again. From what scarce and blurry memories he did have, the night bespoke only of foolishness and embarrassment.

Slowly trying to right his crumpled form from the mess of papers, upon which he'd apparently collapsed, Bilbo noticed immediately when his left arm was speared with a sharp lance of pain.

 _Oh please, Yavanna I beg you!_ He mentally implored, _let it not be a tattoo!_

With great trepidation, the young Hobbit peaked down at the painful limb and instantly wished it was such an inked souvenir of a foolish night.

In hindsight, that would certainly have been preferable to the mess of sticky, half-dried blood that was spread over his clothes, through the tea-towel 'bandage' and onto the piles of parchment beneath. "Oh!" the hobbit cried in fright. His hand hovered uncertainly above the towel for a moment for, despite his years, Bilbo had very little experience with first-aid. However, peeling back the fabric proved futile as his sleeve had dried to his skin. "Ow," Bilbo groaned loudly. In response, the gentle thump of hobbit feet staggeringly approached before a sallow TinTin entered. He looked rather green.

"Urgh, 'ello 'bo." He moaned, one hand cradling his head, eyes squinting. Upon setting his eyes on his cousin, however, his topaz eyes blew wide at the sight of Bilbo sat in a pile of bloodied paper, with crimson staining down his arm.

"Oh, bugger!" TinTin gulped, looking even sicker. "I hope I'm imagining this, Bilbo!" He scrambled closer, gently touching the blonde's arm before yanking back as if burned when the other cried out. "Sorry, sorry!" The older hobbit fluttered, "Come on, we need to bathe it or something!" He shouted before grabbing Bilbo's good arm and leading him to the nearest washroom before rushing over to fill the sink.

"This isn't working…" Bilbo examined his arm with a grimace. The water had immediately turned red and the cloth was still almost welded to Bilbo's skin. "Ahh, there's nothing for it, I'll have to bathe fully." The cousins both gazed at the deep red water.

-oOOOo-

One very red bath later, Bilbo and (a much more put-together) TinTin were sat at the kitchen table, Bilbo's first aid kit spread out before them.

The bath had revealed a long, deep slash from the back of Bilbo's thumb to his upper bicep. The two cousins (after gazing in horror for a few minutes before it had started to bleed again) had wrapped it as best as they could. They stared at it in disbelief for a few minutes longer.

Then they burst out laughing. They laughed and laughed and before Bilbo knew it, he was almost crying as he gripped his stomach.

"What happened last night?!" He burst out.

"We," TinTin giggled hysterically, "had a sword fight!"

 _What?!_

"And you insisted that you could do a sword-toss-thingy-flip-thing and cut your arm!"

 _Swords? Oh Yavanna, TinTin must've seen my collection from his Father!_

"-Then I think I fell off the table and hit my head as that's all I remember really-"

 _Well, there's hope then that anything I may have said doesn't matter anymore…!_

"Well, except that I'm pretty sure we had all your good whiskey."

Bilbo paled in horror.

It was at that point that the morning did the impossible and got worse.

The doorbell rang.

-oOOOo-

"-of all the stupid things to do, Bilbo Baggins, a drunken sword fight must be one of the most idiotic! I have never been so disgusted in two young hobbits before in my life!" The dulcet tones of the Wife of the Thain rang through the smial with all the malice of the death knell.

"And you, Fortinbras Took the Second!" The lady howled in righteous fury, fists shook at her eldest son. "Future Thain, indeed! I have never been more ashamed in my life!"

Bilbo and TinTin sat like the scolded fauntlings they were before the Matriarch, her husband sporting a rare frown behind her.

"Skinny dipping in the brook!"

Crikey, that was news to the two bachelors.

"-Hobbits can't even swim you fools!" Dora continued to berate them. Apparently, their folly hadn't been restricted to Bag-end; according to Dora, they had run naked through the lanes after skinny dipping and ruined more than a few gardens with their drunken pillaging (mainly food).

This had never happened last time around. Bilbo couldn't actually remember if he'd gone to a party before the journey…

"You two are in such a state! Why Bilbo, I told that Big Man outside your door that you were unable for visitors- I cannot allow you to be seen in such a state, especially by some stranger!"

Bilbo choked on the inhale, TinTin slapping him soundly on the back.

"B-big folk? Here?" _It can't be! This wasn't right, this had never happened!_

Aunt Dora frowned in disapproval, both at the visitor and the interruption. Her toffee eyes glinted angrily as she glared at her once-favourite nephew (she wasn't feeling too generous right now) and nodded at him sharply. "I knew the two of you would be in a right state so I told him to come back another day." This time she frowned in thought, turning to look at Uncle Is as she continued; "He was old, and wore grey...the wandering wizard, I thought."

Bilbo stared at her in shock and dread.

This had never happened last time. Even…the day was wrong, the party - everything!

Bilbo fainted.

Unfortunately, an escape into the oblivion was off the table as, not a few moments later, the poor Baggins came to via a very sharp slap of a soaked flannel.

"Bilbo!" Dora growled. "I'm not through with you yet, lad!"

Well, so long as he was awake, he had to do something.

"Auntie Dora, please," he lunged forward and grasped her hands. "When did the stranger leave?"

Dora, astonished at Bilbo's mood change, found herself stuttering that it couldn't have been 10 minutes past, for she had sent him away directly before coming in.

In a leap, despite current sickness, Bilbo sprung from his seat like an arrow from the string, shooting into the entranceway, arm already through one hole of his jacket (the other was firmly wrapped in a sling). Without so much as a by-your-leave, the Baggins was out the door.

The three relatives left behind were thoroughly bewildered (Dora was more so in the region of annoyed, Is more along the lines of amused and TinTin was too busy trying not to be sick again).

Outside, Bilbo had run towards his nearest neighbour, valiantly ignoring how they pointedly scowled at their ravaged blackberry bushes. "Please, my good sir! In which direction did the grey Big Man go?"

The Hobbit, disinclined to linger talking and wanting Bilbo to go as quickly as possible, wasted no time in pointing down the lane, towards upper Hobbiton. "He's not long gone, only five minutes or so. Had to turn around his cart."

With a grateful smile and hasty nod, Bilbo was off again, leaving his scowling neighbour behind.

 _Well, there's another dent in my reputation_ , he thought fondly.

Bilbo was glad once more for his (comparatively pathetic) training regime around Bag-End. Running as fast as he could, stomach still rolling and arm arching, he mercifully caught sight of a pointy grey hat further on through the fields. Quickly leaping the fence beside him, he dashed through cornfields, consoling himself that at least this time he was sober and properly dressed.

The cut through did its job.

Bursting out of the tall sheaths of wheat, gulping air with one arm in a sling and grass all over his person, Bilbo was greeted by the sight of a surprised wizard.

In an attempt to reaffirm his dignity, Bilbo spoke as casually as possible,

"Gandalf the Wandering Wizard…I heard you were looking for me."

...

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